


Hearts and Flowers

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, spnreversebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: While Sam's recovering from a black dog attack, Dean catches wind of an old case from a Men of Letters Journal he randomly pulls from a shelf.  A time traveling church with a killer reverend from colonial Virginia is about to make its every hundred year appearance.  This time the Winchesters will be there to intervene
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94
Collections: 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	Hearts and Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the amazing art of Merakieros. The picture of Sam and Dean walking up to the church was the original prompt. Really, you should check the art post (and all the rest of their wonderful art) here: https://merakieross.livejournal.com/16082.html Thanks to the mods and to my fabulous artist. I love this challenge!

It’s quiet in the bunker. Dean checked on Sam ten minutes ago, palmed his forehead to check for fever, pulled up blankets displaced by his brother’s tosses and turns and replaced the warm bottle of water on the nightstand with a cold one. Now he’s back at the library table, slouched low in his chair with a cut glass tumbler full of bourbon and ice in his hand. Sam’s on the mend. His fever is low grade now, not furnace hot and there’s hint of color returning to his face. Dean swallows a yawn and rubs a hand across his eyes. He hasn’t gotten much rest since Sam got skewered by a tree branch fending off a black dog. Now that Sam’s shuffled off death’s doorstep the idea of dropping face first onto his mattress and sleeping straight through the weekend has an appeal that can’t be denied. Still, Sam’s not up and about yet _and_ he’s in Dean’s bed. Blinking back exhaustion he yawns so wide his jaw hurts and goes back to leafing through an old journal of the Men of Letters unsolved cases.

*

“Hey.”

Dean looks up blearily to see Sam looming over him, one big hand propping his tottering frame up against the table and the other shaking Dean’s shoulder. Groaning, Dean pushes himself upright, shooting a guilty glance downward in reassurance that the inevitable puddle of drool was pooling on the table and not soaking the pages of an irreplaceable book. “Hey, yourself,” he says. “About time you rolled your lazy ass out of bed.”

Sam just blows out a breath and nods. “Probably could have slept another few hours but I wanted to see if I could make it to the bathroom without your help.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he grins and nods. “Affirmative.”

Dean runs his gaze over Sam’s week old stubble and lank hair. “Should have stayed there, dude. You need a shower like whoah.”

“I’m starving, though.” Sam looks at his brother plaintively. Ninety nine times out of one hundred this will work but Dean’s not having it now.

“No way. I didn’t keep you from bleeding to death, lug your oversized self back here and nurse you back to reasonable health just to have you die from Ebola or some shit. You’re getting soaped up and rinsed clean- including that mess on your head- before I scramble you a single egg.”

A heavy sigh is the only answer and Sam’s shoulders slump as he turns away. Dean’s out of his chair and right behind his brother before he’s three steps down the hallway. Sam’s slow but steady on his feet and Dean feels a little better about making Sam shower before breakfast. Sam turns his head and quirks an eyebrow as Dean comes up beside him.

“Gotta make sure you don’t slip or something.” Dean smirks up at Sam. “Can’t have you out of commission for another week.”

“Not up for much right now,” Sam warns.

“Ah, we’ll think of something.”

*

Dean flips on the light to the shower room and grimaces as he always does. The room’s warm and clean but it’s like showering in a barracks or an especially gloomy gym. The extra space comes in handy for some of the ways they’ve gotten it on, but sometimes Dean misses the tight squeeze of Sam against his back in a motel shower. They’re not going to be having a rodeo tonight anyway so he shrugs it off and shimmies out of his jeans, dropping them to the floor. His shirt comes next and he peels it over his head slowly, knowing without looking that Sam is enjoying the view. When he does glance his brother’s way, Sam’s eyes are wide and dark, his lips parted in a small smile. Dean grins and Sam snorts and rolls his eyes without changing his expression one damn bit. Dean heads for the closet shower head and gets the water running steamy hot before heading back to his brother. Sam’s sweatpants are pooled around his bare feet but his bruised ribs are giving him a problem maneuvering his t-shirt up over his head. Dean blows out a heavy breath because the half of Sam that’s visible is pretty darn impressive and once his shirt comes off Dean’s not going to be able to keep his hands to himself.

“Here,” Dean says, taking the hem of Sam’s shirt and rolling it up the mile of Sam torso until Sam can first wriggle his good arm out of the sleeve and then his head. Dean slides the shirt carefully over his brother’s bad side and then off and Sam’s there in all his bare naked glory. Dean’s tongue comes out to slide over his lips and he takes a step forward to run it over Sam’s nipples, perking up in the rising steam, before he remembers Ebola and grips Sam’s arm to drag him under the pounding spray.

“Ow,” Sam yells and Dean instantly releases his bruised forearm and mentally hurries Sam along until his brother groans as he steps beneath the streaming water. Dean lets Sam soak himself for a long moment, satisfied to watch water cascade down Sam’s body. Dean fills his hand with shampoo, knowing that Sam’s not going to be able to get both hands up to wash his hair and pulls his brother’s head gently forward until he can lather up the tangled locks. When Sam’s head is foamy and smelling of coconut, Dean lets him straighten up and moves around behind him to gently massage the tension out of the base of his brother’s skull. Dean slicks his hands with soap and begins to wash Sam’s body, digging his thumbs into knotted muscles as they move across his brother’s back and arms, down his ass cheeks, his thighs, his calves. Sam’s moaning softly over the noise of the shower and Dean reaches up to rinse his hair until it squeaks before moving around to finish the job. Sam’s eyes are heavy lidded and his cock is hard and he holds out his hand for the soap. “I can take it from here.”

“Like hell,” Dean says. “Close your eyes.” Sam sputters as Dean soaps up his face and neck and raises his head into the spray. Sam’s chest is next and Dean circles Sam’s nipples with his soap slick fingers until his brother is panting. Dean moves down Sam’s taut belly and squats to wash his legs before straightening up for the grand finale. His preference would be to blow Sam, but the way his brother looks right now, he’s likely to fall over when he orgasms and Dean wants to be in a position to catch him if that happens rather than be crushed. Dean’s hard enough to pound nails himself. Just having his hands on Sam has that effect on him. He slides a palm under Sam’s balls, fingers quick and light as he gently massages them. Leaning forward, he sucks Sam’s nipple into his mouth, his brother’s big hand gripping the back of his head to hold him there. Sam’s breathing is coming hard and fast as is Dean’s and Dean twists his head out of Sam’s grasp and grins up at his brother. He wraps one hand around Sam’s shaft and the other around his own and begins to stroke in rhythm, in unison. Neither one of them is going to last long, but he goes slow and steady to try and make it last. Up and down, twist and grip, thumb sliding across the head, flesh hot and slick in his hands and Sam leans forward to grip his shoulder and rest their foreheads together. Dean comes first, fountaining over his fist a split second before Sam, whose knees begin to buckle before he catches himself. They lean against each other for a long moment, letting the water rinse them clean before Dean turns the taps off, wraps Sam in big fluffy towels from the shelf by the door and pushes him onto a stool in front of a sink.

“Shave and a haircut?” Dean vigorously towels Sam’s hair then uses the damp towel to wipe steam off the mirror.

Sam wrinkles his nose as he turns his face side to side to get a good look. “Definite no to the haircut, but nice try. And a shave would take too long, man, I’m starving.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” Dean says, running a comb through Sam’s hair and ignoring his brother’s curses when he hits the occasional snag. “Quit complaining. That shampoo you use kicks ass. I’m surprised I don’t have to shave your head bald to straighten this mess out.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam bats Dean’s hand away impatiently and hauls himself to his feet. “I’m clean. My hair is combed. Feed me.”

Dean’s dead guy robe is hanging on a hook by the door and he pulls it on as he follows Sam out of the room. Sam’s got a towel knotted around his waist and another draped across his shoulders. “Yes, your royal highness,” he says, heroically resisting the urge to pull Sam’s towel off and snap his ass with it.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sam warns, flipping him off, and Dean grins as he trails Sam down the hall.

“Hey.” Dean grabs Sam’s arm and steadies him as he sways slightly when they reach the library. “You ready to head back to bed?”

“Not until you change the Ebola plagued sheets.” Sam grins up at his brother as he sinks into the library chair Dean had been sleeping in that morning. “And make me a sandwich.”

“Could go back to your own bed, you mooch,” Dean grumbles. He heads down the hallway to his room anyway and strips the bedding off before throwing it in the corner. Fresh sheets with military corners, two clean blankets and cases for the pillows have the memory foam all ready for Sam to head back whenever he wants. Dean’s going to join him this time.

Sam’s got his head bowed over the open journal and doesn’t look up when his brother drops into the chair opposite him and slides a plate holding two ham and cheese sandwiches across the table. Dean sits in silence for a few minutes while Sam slowly peruses the handwritten pages and chews absently. Finally he can’t contain himself and reaches across the table to poke Sam in the shoulder.

“What ‘cha looking at?” He’s got a pretty good idea. He’d been locked on one himself before dropping off.

“This church in Virginia.” Sam spins the book around, showing Dean a drawing of an old wooden church with a graveyard on one side. “According to legend, it vanished three hundred years ago after a string of missing women over several years were found mutilated in one of the vaults.”

“Then it showed up again a hundred years later and more women disappeared.”

“And then a hundred years after that.” Sam spins the book to face him again and runs his finger down the page. “Apparently the men of letters were there for this one. They managed to keep the deaths down to a minimum but they couldn’t stop the building from vanishing again.” Sam turns the page. “Looks like they came up with a spell they thought would beat it next time it showed up, though.”

“Then they went and all got killed before they got a chance.”

“Yeah.” Sam blows out a breath. “Yeah. But, Dean,”

“It’s in a little over two weeks. You just Rip Van Winkled for almost that long. You sure you’re up for it?”

“Well, we’re not going to be around in another hundred years to take it on then.”

“God, I hope not,” Dean mutters. “But good point. Might as well take our shot at it now before it Brigadoons away again.”

Sam raises an eyebrow in his brother’s direction. “I can’t believe you watch old movie musicals.”

“Dude, you see the legs on those chicks? All the way up and when they twirl around those skirts just rise. Mmmh.” Dean shakes his head and stifles a yawn, raising his wrist to glance at his watch. “Man, I’m beat and it’s only four o’clock.”

“Morning or afternoon,” Sam asks with a yawn of his own.

“Damned if I know. Let’s go back to bed and check that when we wake up again.”

“Sounds good to me.” Sam pushes himself to his feet and yawns his way back to the bedroom, Dean close behind. Sam doesn’t say anything as he drops his towels and slides naked between the cool clean sheets but he makes a happy murmur that Dean echoes as he slips in beside him. Dean flops around a bit before he’s comfortable and drapes his arm across the warm wide expanse of Sam’s back.

“Night, Sammy,” he whispers, but Sam’s dead to the world and Dean follows him into sleep moments later.

*

Sam wants to leave the next day but Dean puts his foot down hard on that idea. Sam’s still weak and underfed and he’s not going anywhere until he’s fully hydrated.

“It’s less than a day’s drive.” Dean slaps a plate of pancakes down in front of his brother, having ascertained that, having slept all night and into the next day, it’s ten o’clock in the morning. He slathers his own cakes with real butter and syrup before sliding the containers Sam’s way. “And I think that maybe it’d be a good idea to do a little more research into this place? Make sure there’s no haunted orchards? No creepy townsfolk? I mean, why would people still live there anyway?”

“A hundred years is a long time, Dean. People forget, they don’t believe in the first place, new folks move in. Lots of reasons.”</ > “Not a single one good enough to risk spending eternity naked with your throat slit in a crypt in a dimension traveling evil church.”

“I don’t know.” Sam chews his pancakes slowly. “Some people have a strong connection to place. It’s their home and they won’t leave. Evil time traveling churches be damned.”

“So to speak.”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a laugh. “So to speak.”

*

Sam’s worked hard on sorting the card catalogue in the library and it pays off in spades in finding materials on their prospective case. The journal Dean pulled out totally at random to kill time has a good solid base for what they will be up against but more potentially lifesaving information is never a bad thing in Sam’s mind. When Dean gets back from his grocery run, long neglected during Sam’s recovery, the table in the library is piled with books on the history of Virginia, colonial religion and inter-dimensional travel. Sam grins at the look on his brother’s face as he passes the library, laden down with grocery bags.

“Come straight back after you put that away,” he yells at Dean’s back.

Dean doesn’t come straight back but when he eventually appears he’s got a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup with a spoon in it and a sleeve of crackers in his hands. He does an about face after setting them down in front of Sam and is back in minutes with his own portion. Sliding into the chair opposite his brother, he crushes saltines into his bowl and glowers at the towers of books.

“Dude, I thought maybe a couple of more journals, maybe a map…”

Sam just shrugs as he slurps down his soup. “I’m sorry, who was worried about haunted orchards or creepy townspeople? Pretty sure that was you. Besides, the spell itself isn’t that complicated but getting what we need for it might take some work?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, setting his empty bowl aside. “It would be great to have everything we need before we get there, but it’s pretty clear we have to get the major component after the bad guys show up. We’ve got a limited amount of time and a lot of chopping and hacking to do.”

Sam wrinkles his nose but stays silent as he jots a few notes onto the yellow pad in front of him before closing his book and pulling another from the stack. He hands it wordlessly to his brother and Dean opens Religious Practices in Colonial Virginia and grudgingly gets to work.

*

Sam’s still worn down and Dean keeps a close eye on him. He ignores the way Sam’s eyes roll when he deposits a bottle of water at his elbow and then sits down across him with a beer. There’s a steady stream of food headed Sam’s way at any hour of the day. Meal times are an arbitrary construct anyway, Dean’s always thought. Sam protests and tries to pretend he’s full, but Dean’s not fooled. His brother doesn’t maintain that oh, so delicious mountain of muscle he calls a body on lettuce and air. And then there are the naps. Sam’s getting stronger every day but he’s still got circles under his eyes and his eyelids droop after every carb and protein heavy meal Dean insists he eat. Dean absolutely doesn’t have ulterior motives for feeding his brother. Sam needs to eat to regain his strength. His guiding Sam down the hall to the bedroom, helping him strip to his boxers and tucking him into bed is just a happy side effect. If he crawls in with him and nestles up to his warmth to catch up on some of his own missed shut eye, it’s just icing on the cake. The day Sam’s up before him, out of bed and out of the bunker for a run, coming back from his shower clean shaven is the day Dean decides for sure they’re going to Virginia.

“OK,” he says as Sam sits down with a cup of coffee and a sandwich he made for himself. Dean doesn’t miss the slight hitch as his brother lowers himself to his chair, though. Sam’s still not completely healed. “You’re, like, eighty-five percent. We’re going to need a couple of days advance time to set things up. You good for this?”

“Definitely.” Sam takes a gulp of his coffee. “I’m ready to go.”

“Awesome.” Dean flips open his notebook. “Let’s go over this one more time. The town was settled in, uh, 1620 by a group of about thirty colonists who cleared the land and built some houses before bringing their families over from England. They built the church in 1640 and had two ministers before a Reverend William Platt took over in 1705.”

“The first minister died in a fairly straightforward fall from a horse.” Sam stares morosely at the bottom of his almost empty coffee cup. “The second disappeared, coincidentally, a few days before Reverend Platt showed up.”

“Dangerous times back then. Wild animals, hostile natives, not that I blame them, heavy growth forests. Anything could have happened to him. Knowing what we know about this Platt guy, I’m betting he happened, though.”

“Probably. The timing was pretty convenient.” Sam shifts a bit in his chair, catches Dean looking and straightens up. “He came in and basically just took over the church. I guess nobody questioned a man of God.”

“Supposed man of God. People are so gullible.”

“lt’s come in handy for us a time or two.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, can’t argue with that. Still, according to the records, nobody liked this dude and they just let him waltz in and take over.”

“Well, especially back in those days, religion ruled everything in that area. You got a preacher and went to his church no matter what. People who didn’t go to church had bad reputations and nobody wanted to deal with what that meant.”

“Scarlet letters? Burning at the stake? Can’t imagine why they didn’t make waves. Too bad they didn’t know how much God didn’t give a damn about any of it.”

“Yeah, well, people believe what they want to believe.” Sam flips the page. “So the good people of the settlement attended church on Sunday and had the reverend over for dinner and kept their eyes on their daughters and their valuables. The first woman, Prudence Blackwell, wife of the town blacksmith, disappeared in 1710. He bided his time. Over the next seven years, five more women vanished without a trace. All different ages, sixteen to forty five and no similar characteristic other than they were all female. The last one was Sarah, uh, Prufrock, in the fall of 1717. She was the daughter of a farmer who lived on the outskirts of town.”

“When they finally,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes, “decided to check out the skeevy reverend’s church while he was out mooching off one of their fellow town folk. And the men found the entrance to a tunnel beneath the floorboards that led to an underground vault behind the church. In that vault were the corpses of six women in various states of decomposition, but from clothes and other belongings scattered around the room, they identified all of them as the missing women from their town. So they gathered up their pitchforks and torches and muskets for those who had them and went to collect the dirtbag.”

“He’d already headed back to the church, though, and by the time they’d tracked him there he’d figured out he was screwed. When the townsmen arrived to arrest him, they heard ‘chanting in the Devil’s tongue’ from the church and then it vanished right in front of their eyes.” Sam flips the last page over. “The Men of Letters couldn’t get the reverend, because, it seems, he’s stuck somehow in the church. Some screw up in the vanishing spell, they figure. But in his time away, he majicked up some constructs that _can_ leave and they do the girl grabbing for him.”

“Yeah.” Dean holds up an old photograph by one corner, careful not to smudge it. “Fugly mothers, slow according to the report, but hard to bring down and impossible to kill. Still, they think, like with the spell for the church, they’ve come up with a way to beat them.”

Sam blows out a long breath. “They knew their stuff. If anyone could come up with these plans it would be them. Trial and error, though. If it’s wrong this time, who’ll be around in a hundred years to learn from our mistakes?”

“Better not make any then. Improvise if we have to.”

“If we have to.”

*

The sun’s out when they head for Virginia, bright in a cloudless blue sky. Sam’s got the window rolled down, elbow on rim, enjoying the warm wash of air as he stares out into a golden Indian Summer.

“Hey.” Dean reaches across to poke him on the shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Just thinking about the church. Where does it go? I mean if it was there and you just couldn’t see it, I’d think someone would have figured that out by now. Back in time? Alternate dimension? Be interesting to know what spell got used for it, anyway.”

“Why?” Dean stares at his brother. “We’ve been back in time and it pretty much sucks. Though a spell to an alternate dimension might not be that bad. Got to be one that’s better than this one, right?”

“With our luck?” Sam snorts and pretends to put his fingers in his ears to block out Dean’s descriptions of his perfect alternate realities.

*

Keller, Virginia is a neat, well kept small town, and, Dean can’t help but notice, there aren’t a lot of citizens out and about. He drives slowly down the main street, past the post office and the town hall, garnering quick glances from the few people on the sidewalks.

“Maybe people _do_ remember,” Sam says, craning his neck to look back as they roll back out of town.

“Yeah, we’ll check the people later. There’s a hotel just past the edge of town and the church, well, where the church will be in a couple of days, is about half a mile past that. First things first.”

The sun is sinking toward the horizon when they reach the patch of weathered, overgrown gravestones set back from the road. Sam grabs a shotgun from the weapons duffle and tosses a second to his brother. Dean’s got the EMF detector out and he’s walking slowly among the stones, peering at the faded, lichen encrusted writing on them.

“Nothing going on here right now,” he calls to Sam, wandering over to the flat patch of ground where the church would have been. He stands in silence, staring, until Sam comes up beside him. It’s a rectangular space, the earth dark and bare, not a hint of the weeds covering the surrounding ground poking through the soil.

“Burned, do you think?” Sam reaches to grab Dean as he bends down to touch it. “Don’t, man. Let’s check around town first. Maybe they come out and burn it every year or something.”

“Yeah, or maybe there’s a spell on the earth too.” Dean straightens up and punches Sam lightly on the shoulder. “Might have been cool to get sucked into an alternate dimension, though.”

“I don’t know.” Sam follows his brother back to the car. “I think where ever that church goes isn’t full of beer, cheeseburgers, hot showers and memory foam.”

*

The hotel parking lot is empty and the clerk eyes them warily as they walk into the lobby. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We’d like a room, please.” Dean slaps a credit card down on the counter. The clerk just looks at it.

“Are you sure? Most folks head to the harvest festival over in Meriden this week. Half the town’s already there.

“We’re sure,” Sam says.

“Yep.” Dean taps his finger on the card. “We don’t like crowds.”

“Might get more crowded than you like in a couple of days.” The card remains untouched.

Sam looms over the counter and eyes the clerk’s nametag. “Look, James. We just drove all the way from Kansas to be in your town today and through the weekend. You’re not really doing your job as a tourism representative if you just tell us to move on.”

“Yeah, well if you get…” James trails off. “You don’t understand, it’s…”

“We understand that in two days a church is going to appear out of thin air half a mile from here and evil sons of bitches are going to come into this really nice seeming little town and make off with some of your really nice seeming neighbors and it won’t end well.” Dean smiles pleasantly. “Unless we stick around and make it a bad day for the bad guys instead. Run the card.”

James picks the card up, gaze darting between the brothers. “You know about the church? And, really, you believe this is going to happen?”

“Don’t you?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “You were practically throwing us out the door two minutes ago.”

James just shrugs. “My sister believes. I don’t really remember my grandma Helen, but she does. Grandma was a little girl in 1917 but she was old enough to remember what happened, according to Mandy. Other people in town had relatives that were there too and passed down the stories. Some believe and some don’t. Me, I don’t want to take any chances. Hey.” His eyes widen as he stares at them. “Are you men of letters?”

“You know about the men of letters?” Dean shakes his head. “This really isn’t turning out how I expected.”

“They were here last time, according to Mandy. The men of letters, I mean. I don’t know that much about them, but Grandma Helen’s mother Matilda got letters from one for while after it happened. I read them once a long time ago and, I mean, it seems crazy what they told us to do, how to prepare. Crazy…” James runs his hands up and down his arms like he’s suddenly gotten a chill and peers at them through wire rimmed glasses.

“Does Mandy still have these letters?” Dean steps forward to take the card James finally rings up.

“She’s the town librarian,” James says with a wry twist of his lips. “She archived them all.”

“Nerdy and efficient.” Dean nods approvingly, gently punching Sam’s arm. “A good combination.”

“Would Mandy be at the library now?” Sam reaches out for the key James is holding out.

“Nah, it’s closed. Opens at nine tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Sam says, correctly interpreting Dean’s raised eyebrow. “We’ll go tomorrow and see what other information Mandy might have.”

“You’re the room all the way down the end,” James says, gesturing vaguely to his left. “If you don’t want to drive half an hour for dinner, Lauren’s Café on Spring Street is your best bet. Hey,” he adds as Sam opens the door. “What do you think of the wards? Did we do them right?”

Sam stares at James for a moment then follows the direction of his finger to an iron framework entwined with red wildflowers that’s hanging on the door. He tilts his head as he studies it. “It’s a bidrun,” he says, finally. “Old and powerful. And done right, for sure.”

“Men of Letters told you how to do this?” Dean peers outside to see similar floral frames decorating every door on the motel.

“Yep.” James grins weakly. “Good to know we didn’t mess it up. Really good.”

*

The room is large and airy, the beds covered with brightly patterned spreads and sporting thick, fluffy pillows. A small kitchenette hides in an alcove along the outside wall and the bathroom, well, Dean approves. The shower isn’t huge, just a glass enclosed stall, but it’s just the right size for what he’s in the mood for. And there’s a tub. He runs his hand along the squeaky clean porcelain and fingers the whirlpool jets protruding from the sides. It’s big enough for both him and Sam and oh, yes, he’s got plans.

“Sammy, come check this out.” Dean drags his brother into the bathroom.

Sam lets out a low whistle at the sight of the tub. He opens the door to the shower to peer inside and turns to Dean with a grin. “Yeah. This will work.”

“Hell, yeah.” Dean begins to strip off his shirt and Sam grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the bathroom.

“Not until after, Dean.”

“After what? Dinner? Because now works for me.”

“After we’re done with the church.”

“That’s not for two more days! Dude, it’s been nothing but handjobs for weeks…”

Sam bodies Dean against the wall and drops his head down to kiss him. “Something wrong with the handjobs?”

“No,” Dean murmurs when Sam moves lower to suck a bruise into his neck. “Nothing wrong at all. But..”

“But nothing,” Sam says, gripping Dean’s face in his hands. “Don’t worry, Dean. The shower’s going to be put to good use. After.”

“After,” Dean sighs. Sam just smiles, hot and bright. “Yeah, I can wait for that.

“Good,” Sam says, stepping back. “Let’s eat.”

*

The library is on a quiet side street halfway through town. Dean pulls the Impala up to the curb and parks her, staring like Sam is, at the warding sigils on every door, telephone pole and fencepost in sight.

“We’re going to have to get some of those down if we’re going to trap those things,” Sam says, biting his lip.”

“We’re going to have to find someplace to trap them in, too. I’m sure this Mandy person has maps of the town in her library.”

The library is empty except for a woman standing by the reception desk. She’s in her late forties as far as Dean can tell, dark hair shot through with gray. Her hands are clasped in front of her, white knuckled and her gaze darts between them and a table neatly stacked with papers and books.

“Mandy?” Sam steps forward and offers his hand. “I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean.”

Dean gives the woman a nod as she grips Sam’s hand. “Nice little town you’ve got here.”

“Thank you,” she says with a small smile. “We’d really like to keep it that way.

“We’re here to help with that however we can.”

“Are you really men of letters?” She sweeps her gaze over each of them in turn. “James said…but we’d given up expecting you. It’s been over sixty years since we heard anything.”

“We really are men of letters.” Sam gives her his most reassuring look as he heads for the paper covered table. Deciding not to tell her why the letters had stopped coming is definitely the way to go. “And we’re also hunters. So we’re doubly good at getting rid of things like your haunted church monsters.”

“Things,” Mandy repeats in a tone that’s not at all up for finding out what those things might be right now. “Okay. We’ve prepared as well as we can. The wards are done. We set up the school bus garage at the end of Market Street to try and trap them. It’s at the edge of town and there aren’t any houses around it. We’ve got axes and chainsaws cached away there. But, everything after getting them there, it’s just… Some of us took self defense classes but I don’t know if we can…” Her voice breaks and Dean puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of chopping things into little pieces and filleting the hearts out. You just point us in the right direction and we’ll do the rest.” His smile isn’t as reassuring as Sam’s but he gives it his best effort.

“Well,” Mandy shrugs a little and her lip twists up at the corner. “We actually had the hearts covered if we somehow managed to do the chopping. John and Sarah Romano, two of the top trauma surgeons at Johns Hopkins, retired here about ten years ago. They’re huge history buffs and really into haunting lore. They’re all in, scalpels, rib spreaders, the works, to get the hearts out. If, you know, we can kill them at all. And they have ribs. And hearts. Can you kill things that aren’t really alive?”

“You can sure put them out of commission. And, man, that’s good news about your doctors. I don’t mind sharing the carnage in this case. Anything that makes this go quicker and easier is fine by me.” Dean picks up a diary from the table and leafs through it. “You guys did great with the warding sigils too. I mean, they’re everywhere. How did you get every single person in town to put them on their door?”

Mandy finally smiles back. “Got the town council to pass an ordinance to beautify the town. There was some pushback, but eventually the fines for non-compliance got everyone in line. Tom Martins and his brothers made the iron frames. They’re direct descendents of Prudence Blackwell, the first woman to be murdered by Reverend Platt and they still do metal work in town. No one was going to hang just the frames on their doors so we made the flowers a group project. The kids got extra credit for plaiting them onto the frames after school. It took years, but it’s not like we didn’t know exactly when we’d be needing them.”

Sam hands the final letter to Dean who begins to read. _I’ve broken a dozen rules corresponding with you like this. My order frowns on making our knowledge public. But one hundred years is a long time and no one can foresee the future, so I am ensuring your town has can at the very least attempt to protect itself should we be unable to. Hopefully the next generations of my family and yours can work together to end your nightmare. Sincerely, J.H. Winchester._ Dean grins at Sam. “Henry’s dad? Winchesters, saving people, hunting things and breaking rules. The family business goes way back.”

Mandy looks at them in confusion. “You knew Jonathon’s son?”

“Briefly,” Sam says. “He was our grandfather. Sam and Dean Winchester, at your service.”

“Next generations,” Mandy says, letting out a shaky breath. “Let’s pray we can pull this off.”

“Well,” Dean says with a shrug, “none of it’s been tried but the brains behind the theories were first rate students of the supernatural and ‘figure things out as you go’ is straight out of the modern Winchester operational handbook.”

“There isn’t anything in these letters that wasn’t in the journals back at the bunker.” Sam takes the letter back from Dean and gently places it back on the pile. “Can we have copies of these?”

“Of course.” The letters go carefully back in a lined envelope and the journals in a wooden box before being placed in a drawer in a large oaken filing cabinet. “After tomorrow. It’ll be like a talisman. We’ll meet back here after we win and you can have them.”

“You’ve got a deal,” Sam says, and they shake on it.

*

The school bus garage is only a few blocks away and Mandy leads them through the warm sunshine down the sidewalk. The wards disappear from sight after they make the turn onto Market Street and Sam nods approvingly. Once they get into town it’s the only place the creatures can go. Empty lots and storage buildings line the pavement. There aren’t many people left in Keller but it’s unlikely any will accidently wander into the action in this part of town.

“You all did good work here,” he says. “Getting people to believe something bad is going to happen isn’t easy.”

“Well, I need to thank my grandma for that. She convinced me to believe. And a few other grandmas and grampas in town got their grandkids believing too. We few were enough to get the ball rolling. Though I’ve got to say, I hope tomorrow comes and goes and nothing happens at all.” She looks at them and sighs. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“Anything’s possible.” Sam shoots a look at his brother. “But preparing for the worst is usually the best bet.”

The garage comes into sight as they round a corner. The area around it is clear except for a bus parked about fifty feet away, bright red flowers on iron bars decorating the doors.

“For us to retreat to if we couldn’t fight them,” Mandy says, shrugging slightly. “Which is the outcome we pretty much expect. At least they can’t get to us and would have to go back empty handed. If the wards actually work, that is.”

“The men of letters did not steer you wrong with the wards,” Sam says, walking over to peer inside the warehouse. It’s a wide open space and he raises an eyebrow at the axes and chainsaws hanging from sigil covered walls. “They’re powerful and they _will_ work. That’s a lot of weapons, though. Might be a bit much for just the two of us and we don’t want the bad guys grabbing any.

“We’re more machete guys anyway.” Dean wanders into the garage and pulls a chainsaw off the wall. “How are we going to make sure they even come this way? I mean, there’s nowhere else they can get to, but they might just decide to wander back out of town.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” Mandy says, grimly. “And Sarah will be here. And a few other women from the town. Bait, you know. But since we won’t have to stay in the building to fight, we’ll be right out the back door and onto the bus.”

“Discretion being the better part of valor and all,” Dean says with a laugh and Sam and Mandy join in.

“Exactly,” she says, before rubbing a hand across her eyes and letting out a shuddering breath. “You don’t have any idea how happy I am you two showed up.”

“We get that a lot,” Dean says waggling his eyebrows.

Mandy just shakes her head and pulls out her cell phone. “I’m going to call some people and get the weapons cleared out. Can you make it back to the library?

Sam nods and takes Mandy’s number. “We’re going to head back to the motel for some sleep and then we’ll stake out the church grounds. When things get popping we’ll call you.”

“We’ll be ready.”

*

It’s dark in the hour before dawn, fall’s warmth switching to chill overnight. Dean upends the thermos to drain the last bit of coffee into his cup. “Why can’t these things ever happen at high noon,” he grumbles, and Sam side eyes him.

“According to the journal, it appeared at nine thirty-six a.m. last time. You’re the one who wanted to sit here all night to make sure it didn’t pop in early.”

“Can’t be too careful, Sammy. All we need is for it to show up while we’re sacked out back at the hotel. We’ve only got a day to deal with whatever comes out to play.”

“If that,” Sam says, staring out the window. “if they grab their quota they could blink out any time.”

“Quota.” Dean lets out a muffled growl. “Nope. They’re not getting anything this time. Walking right into a trap if they get by us.”

“The _plan_ is to let them get by us, remember.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lure them into the warded area, close them in and forty whacks.” Dean makes a chopping motion with his hand and Sam snorts.

“Grab the hearts, do the spell, send that psycho priest to hell.”

“Huh,” Dean says with a laugh. “Maybe we should use that instead of the Men of Letters mumbo jumbo. It even rhymes.”

“Probably should stick with the spell we’ve got, Dean.”

“Yeah, like we’re sure that one works and all. Hey, you think this thing makes noise when it comes in for a landing? You know, like the Tardis?”

“Nope,” says Sam staring out the window where the church has appeared, dark shadows painting the walls in the rising sun.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean grabs the EMF detector and it begins wailing and spitting like the whole graveyard has erupted with spirits. “See anything moving?”

“No.” Sam’s head swivels around. “Probably coming from the church.”

Dean slowly opens the door and gets out, shotgun in one hand and the detector in the other. He circles through the graveyard shaking his head at Sam. When he nears the church the screeching begins again. The windows are dark, the doors wooden and ominous in their heavily carved wood.

“Probably not a good idea to go inside, huh?” Sam comes up beside his brother, his own shotgun in his hand.

“You think?” Dean slaps Sam across the chest with the back of his hand. “all we need is for it to take off unexpectedly and we’re skeletons in some weirdo dimension and building of the damned here is back in this spot in a hundred years.”

“Hey.” Sam raises his gun as the door creaks open. There’s a man in the doorway, short and stocky, wearing a black frock coat and breeches. Thick grey hair falls to his shoulders and his eyes are dark shadows beneath his brows.

“Pastor Willie, I presume,” Dean says, his own gun trained on the man like Sam’s is. “You’ve been gone a long time. Why don’t you come on out and let us fill you in on what’s been happening while you were away.”

“Reverend Platt, if you please.” His gaze shifts to the guns and past Sam and Dean to the Impala, shining in the morning light. “And nothing would please me more than to join you on this fine morning. So many changes every time I return. But, alas, I cannot.”

“Alas”, Dean echoes. “I’ve got salt, Sammy. What do you have?”

“Silver,” Sam says. “And sanctified iron.”

“Guess it’s you, then.”

The shotgun roars as the rounds fly, but the man doesn’t flinch. The bullets bounce back as they reach the doorway and fall to the steps with a clatter. Salt rounds follow with the same result and Platt laughs.

“Your weapons will not work from out there. In my sanctuary I am immortal.”

“We’ve heard that one before.” Dean aims his most annoying smirk at the reverend. “You’re not more special than any other monster we’ve ended. Immortal is just a word, pal.”

Platt laughs. “My time away is not measured in years as you know them. I am old beyond measure.

“Are you older than angels?”

“Don’t blaspheme, young man.” Platt stares at Sam with narrowed eyes.

“That would be a no, then?” Sam laughs. “Sorry, we’re not impressed.

Platt’s face darkens, even in the shadows of the church and he gestures behind him. “There is still life in this cursed town, I can feel it. Perhaps you will be impressed when my servants bring me companions for the long nights ahead.

“Not happening, dude. Not this time.” Dean pops another set of shells into his shotgun and holds it ready.

The sun is up completely now and the doorway is bathed in light as the first creature exits. It’s followed by another and another until eight are spread out across the grass. The figures are tall and thin, pale faces with scars where their eyes and mouths should be. Small flaps in the middle of their faces flick open and closed as they appear to scent the air. Dean fires first as they head his way, with Sam following right after. The bullets don’t bounce off, but they seem to disappear into doughy flesh, leaving thin trails of red liquid running down the dingy white pants that are their only clothing. Sam swings at the creature nearest him and its head rocks back minutely before it backhands him into the side panel of the Impala.

“Okay,” Dean says, grabbing the arm that isn’t wrapped around Sam’s ribs and thrusting him into the car. “Time for plan B.”

“Plan A, Dean.” Sam turns to look behind them and Dean doesn’t miss the barely audible hiss through gritted teeth. “They’re following us. Slow down so we can be sure they don’t stray.” He punches Mandy’s number into his phone. “We’re heading in.”

“This road only leads to one place, Sam.” But Dean eases up on the accelerator until they all reach the outskirts of town then speeds the Impala to the warehouse. There’s a small group milling around nervously and Mandy makes hurried introductions.

“Show time,” Mandy says in a shaking voice as her phone rings. James is keeping watch from a warded house across from Market Street and his panicked voice is audible to all nearby.

“They’re here.”

Dean grabs a machete from the trunk for each hand. Sam’s already gripping an axe. They slip into the building and get out of sight, one on each side of the door. Mandy and Sarah enter with a few other women, all tightly gripping each other’s hands. They cross to the far door but stay in plain sight. Sarah checks the handle to make sure it will open and Dean gives her a thumbs up. A tremulous smile comes back his way, but only for a moment before her mouth opens in silent horror. The first creature crosses the doorway and when the screams begin the whole group crowds its way in. Warded metal doors bang closed behind them and Mandy wrenches open the back door and shoves the other women through before slamming it closed behind her.

“Hey, uh, fellas.” Dean sidesteps the first creature to come for him and neatly lops off its head. Sam’s holding the axe in both hands, but he’s slightly hunched to the right, ribs obviously re-injured since his collision with the Impala earlier. Dean automatically moves to that side to cover his flank. With his longer reach, Sam swings for the legs, sending one after another crashing to the floor while Dean moves in to behead them.

“Not so tough now, are you,” Sam says with a grunt as he hacks off the arm attached to the hand wrapped around his ankle. “Paint a few runes on the wall and lock the doors and you’re toast.”

Dean ducks and rolls as the last construct reaches for him, coming up to slash across the back of its knee. Sam’s there, swinging his axe with an audible groan, taking the head clean off and sending it bouncing across the concrete. Headless bodies lay strewn across the floor, those with intact limbs still struggling to get back up. Dean drops his machete by the door, grabs an axe off the wall and joins his brother in dismembering the creatures. The axes bite into not quite flesh as the brothers move through the carnage, adding to it until torsos, heads, and bits of arms and legs have all gone to their separate quarters.

“Mmmmrgh.” Dean sinks to his knees and rests his forehead against the axe handle.

“You okay?” Sam limps over and hovers, staring with worried eyes.

“I’m fine, dude. Just tweaked my shoulder a little. Man, I can’t wait to go soak in that tub back at the motel.

Sam snorts and rubs his side. “Man, I feel you. Got a few things left to do first, though.

“Yeah.” Dean pushes himself to his feet and turns in a slow circle, staring at the runes and sigils on the walls. “At least one of them worked to make these suckers choppable.”

Sam bangs the all clear on the door. “Let’s hope things go as well when we get back to the not so good reverend.”

The bolt slides back with an audible clang and the door swings open. Everyone except John and Sarah, already gloved and digging into their medical bags, goes pale at the sight that greets them.

Sam starts to go out to shepherd them away, then looks down at his gore spattered clothes and thinks better of it. “Uh, why don’t you all sit down over by the bus until we’re done here. You probably shouldn’t go home until this is completely over.”

They straggle back to the bus, collapsing on the grass beside it and leaning on the tires. Mandy disappears into the bus and returns with a case of bottled water. She leaves it by the bus but brings two bottles, to Sam. She extends them at arm’s length, runs a quick glance over his blood streaked clothes then stares past his left shoulder.

“I can’t believe they bleed,” she says, voice shaking. “They didn’t look real. I mean, like people.”

“Men like Reverend Platt can make horrible things real.” Sam tosses a bottle to Dean and twists the top off of his, taking a long swig. “Or, they might be a version of whatever people are where ever he goes when he’s away.”

“And unless he monologues while we’re exiling him permanently, we’ll probably never know.” Dean’s standing in the doorway, dividing his attention between his brother and the surgeons about to begin cutting. He pours half of his water over his head before chugging the rest down in a few gulps.

“Seems terrible to saddle even those creatures with him permanently.” She shivers as she looks from Sam to Dean..

“We don’t know what the spell will do or where it will send him. Hopefully it traps him in a big pile of nothing for the rest of eternity.”

“Hey, we’re ready to go in!” Sarah calls. Dean turns to go back inside, Sam trailing behind him. Mandy lingers in the doorway for a moment before beating a hasty retreat.

Sarah and John kneel on the blood soaked floor on either side of the closest torso. They’re wearing hip waders and rubber gloves cover their arms up to the elbows. Sarah holds a scalpel, ready to cut. She peers up at them through the hard plastic of her face shield.

“This isn’t really surgery,” Sam says. “More of an autopsy. Just get them out intact and we’ll take care of the rest.”

She nods and takes a deep breath before making a neat incision down the center of the chest and peeling back the thick spongy flesh. There are ribs of a sort underneath and John cuts through them with a small power saw, exposing the chest cavity. The heart is there, twitching muscle and red with blood. Sarah dissects it out neatly and holds it uncertainly.

“Where do you want me to put it?”

Dean runs out to the car and rummages through the trunk for the cooler before remembering it’s at the hotel. Swearing under his breath he empties out the weapons duffle and hauls it back into the garage.

“In here, I guess.”

“Really?” Sam shakes his head.

Dean just shrugs and holds out the bag so Sarah can drop the heart in it. They move to the next body, and then the next, until all eight hearts are in the bag. Sarah looks at the last empty chest cavity, rises slowly to her feet and runs outside to vomit. John follows more slowly and gathers her up to take her over to the bus and some water.

Sam grabs the bag, leaking blood from bottom and wraps it in plastic in the Impala’s trunk. Dean follows him with the axes they’d used. Sam eyes them but Dean just shrugs.

“You never know,” he says, grabbing the gas can from the trunk and soaking every body part in the building.

“Wait, you’re going to burn them?” Mandy looks at the concrete floor and walls. “Will the whole place go?”

“Won’t be a total loss,” Dean says, motioning her back from the door. “But these need to be burned and we don’t have time to take them somewhere else right now. We’ve got to get back to the church.”

“You all get out of here,” Sam says as Dean tosses a match into the garage and flames spread across the floor. “But stay together until we give you the all clear, understand?”

“C’mon,” Mandy says, herding the others in front of her. “We’ll all go back to the library and wait there.”

They park the Impala down the road a bit from the church and walk through the long grass among the gravestones to the church. Sam’s got the bag in his hand, dripping and heavy with plastic wrapped hammers and iron spikes along with the hearts. Each carries an axe, tips still red with blood, evidence for Reverend Platt that his monsters _can_ be killed. Sam’s in pain, his hitched steps tell the tale and Dean puts his hand on his brother’s back to help him up the path.

Reverend Platt is still in the doorway, flickering light from inside the church casting his shadow on the steps. He’s staring toward the town and his mouth twists in anger when he sees Sam and Dean approaching and not his creatures.

“Hey, Reverend Willie!” Dean hoists his axe over his head and swings it around. “Guess whose blood this is?”

“Impossible,” the reverend shouts, raising his fists.

“Nothing’s impossible,” Sam says, unzipping the bag as they reach the church. He hands Dean a hammer and a handful of spikes before dropping the bag on the ground and pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “And now we’re going to make sure you never hurt anyone again either.”

Dean picks up a heart from the bag and hammers a spike through it into the side of the church. There’s a thrum in the air and the wall trembles slightly. Sam begins to read the spell, each word clear and loud and the walls tremble more.

“No,” the reverend cries from the doorway. “No, you will not do this.” He retreats into the church and a counter chant begins.

“He’s trying to make a break for it, Sam!” Dean moves further down the wall and slams another heart onto it. He moves around the corner, the hearts must be two on each side for the spell to work. He can’t see Sam now, but the words still ring out and the power in the air grows with every spike he hammers home. He covers the back and the other side of the church before all that is left is the front. The doors.

Sam catches his eye before he heads up the steps. “Hammer the last one home and get out quick.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy, I’m not going anywhere with this douchebag.” Dean darts up the stairs and gets a good view into the church. Reverend Platt is kneeling in the center of a pentagram, black candles guttering in a circle around him. He stares at Dean with manic eyes.

“You will not trap me.”

Dean stares right back as he nails the next to last heart to one door. He tosses the last one in the air and catches it before impaling it on the other door just as Sam finishes the spell. The quaking earth splits the stone stairs beneath him as he throws himself back to solid ground. Sam grabs him by the arm and drags him away from the building as it bursts into flames. The church shimmers behind the fire, seeming to expand and then contract until it explodes into countless tiny bits of light that shine for just a moment before shooting off in every direction possible before blinking out.

“Wow.” Dean blinks against the dots dancing on his retinas. “So, that did it, right?”

“Should. He’s in about a million pieces now and they all went in a different direction. I’d say he’s not going to be a problem again.

“Awesome.” Dean stares at his blood soaked hands. “Man, let’s get out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam calls the library with the all clear and they head back to the hotel.

*

The hotel office is empty. James is staying in town for the night.

“Got the place to ourselves, Sammy,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows. He stops at the door, running his fingers along the flower covered ward. “Hearts and flowers, bro. Works every time.”

Dean sheds his clothes as he crosses the room, not slowing down at all until he’s under the shower’s pounding spray. The water runs red as evidence of the day’s activities swirl down the drain. The heat’s soaking his muscles into relaxation and he shampoos his hair until the stiffness of blood is replaced by squeaky clean softness. He’s about to turn off the water and get out when the door clicks open behind him and Sam’s bulk crowds him against the wall. Sam’s still covered in gore, so Dean leans against the tiles and enjoys the show of Sam, slippery wet and soaped up.

“How’s the side,” he asks.

“A little sore.” Sam stretches his torso, one side to the other and Dean’s breath catches. “But I think it’ll be okay for what I’ve got in mind.”

Dean shivers as Sam grips his hips and turns him to face the wall. He spreads his legs but Sam’s foot nudges gently at his ankle until he’s out from under the direct line of the spray. The slick feel of his brother’s lubed fingers sliding down the crack in his ass to circle his hole makes him groan and Sam’s breath, hot on his neck makes his knees weak. Sam presses one finger inside and then another and Dean’s writhing as his brother works him open.

“Feel good?” Sam murmurs into Dean’s ear and huffs a laugh at his brother moan. “This will feel even better.”

Dean goes up on his tiptoes as Sam’s cock enters him, one slow, hip rolling inch at a time, then drops his head to rest on his forearm against the wall as Sam begins to pound into him. Dean’s hips rock in rhythm with Sam’s, and he’s ready to come just from the harsh gasps gusting past his ear. “Sammy, shit. Oh, god.” Dean’s babbling but that’s nothing new when Sam’s fucking him into next week. Sam can take it slow, too and does when he wants to drive his brother crazy. Dean babbles then, too. Generally he babbles whenever Sam’s inside him.

Sam’s sliding hot and heavy over Dean’s sweet spot and it’s just about doing him in. He’s not going to beg. He’s not. “Please Sam,” he chokes out and Sam licks his ear.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice like molten honey. He shifts his stance slightly and pounds straight into Dean’s prostate, wrapping his arm around his brother’s waist to keep him from moving.

Dean lasts about thirty seconds before coming, biting into his forearm to keep from yelling. Sam follows right behind, burying his head against Dean’s shoulder as he shudders through his own release. They lean against each other for a long moment, chests heaving until Sam pulls slowly out. The water is rapidly cooling so they clean up quickly and stagger out of the shower.

“Still want to take a bath?” Sam taps the side of the tub. “I could fill it up.”

Dean’s struggling to stay upright while he towels himself off. “Dude, right now we’d probably fall asleep and drown.

“Yeah,” Sam says, stifling a yawn. “You’re probably right. We shouldn’t chance it.”

Once they hit the bed sleep comes instantly for both of them.

*

They’re at the library the next morning as soon as it opens. Mandy is waiting with a pot of coffee and the letters from their great grandfather in a manila folder.

“I gave you the originals,” she says. “Seemed like we should have the copies.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, running his fingers along the folder. “We never even thought we had family, so finding out about Henry and now Jonathan, it’s just, well, it’s connection we never thought we’d have.”

“Well, we’ve got our notes here, so future generations will know about you too. And I’m sure you’ll be writing this up for your journals. So, we’ll all be immortalized, in writing, at least.

“There are worse ways to be immortalized,” Sam says and Dean just snorts.

“There are better too. Come on, Sam, daylight’s wasting.” He stands and turns to Mandy. “And thank you and your town for believing. It would have been a lot harder to get rid of Reverend Platt without all the work you put in beforehand.”

“We all did it together,” she says, shaking their hands. “You have a safe trip home, now.”

*

Dean puts the folder on the front seat between himself and Sam for the ride back to the bunker. He keeps one hand on the wheel and rests the other on the folder, thinking about connections and generations and responsibility. About ten minutes in, Sam puts his hand on the folder and twines his fingers with Dean’s for the long drive home.


End file.
